


In The Darkness

by monsterthing



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Angst, Dubious Consent, FrostIron - Freeform, Loki is just a bastard, M/M, New York, PWP, Tony is a mopey bastard, Unresolved Sexual Tension, leather bars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-28
Updated: 2013-02-28
Packaged: 2017-12-03 22:30:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/703340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monsterthing/pseuds/monsterthing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Loki was excitement and danger and fear and everything he needed, in the form of one lean, murderous mind with poison-green eyes and an unknown motive, and those fucking gorgeous lips, so cold and unrelenting."</p><p>Bored Tony is Depressed Tony is Bad Decisions Tony.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In The Darkness

**Author's Note:**

> Done as a request for a friend. Loki, leather, possibly a gay bar. And. Well. Here we are.

This really was, he thought, for the millionth time, ever so fucking pathetic. 

It wasn't like he didn't have absolutely everything he could ever want. The money, the fame, the power, the girl - daddy would have been so proud. Except, really, wasn't that the problem? Would daddy have even noticed? 

Tony knocked back another shot of Jack on one long smooth swallow, before slipping the glass back to the bartender silently. 

It was classic. It was cliche. It was far too cliche. He knew that, but that in itself gave him a strange, twisted sort of pleasure. It was nice to live up to some stereotypes. He wanted to shatter them. He wanted to take this cliche - his life, a storybook written by a tv-director with no new ideas and a hard-on for melodrama - was he in a Mexican soap opera, maybe? - if so, there should be more tits - he wanted to take it, and he wanted to rip it apart, just like he had his former life.

After all, what good is it, being a superhero, if you couldn't even save yourself? 

Even his moping was so damn pathetic. 

Superhero. The word rolled around in his mouth like the aftereffects of a night of heavy drinking. Cottony and thick, it settled somewhere near the base of his tongue, bound to stick around for days and fuck up the taste of everything else.

The bartender was fairly good looking - the strong, bald type, you know, the classic gay parody of a leather-boy. Bright blue eyes under thick brows and a scowl to melt the hardest of hearts. Currently, he was aiming his ever so pleasant visage straight at Tony. 

Who scowled right back at him, nudging the glass closer. "Another one."

"You're done, Tony."

"Am not. Look. Here I am, asking you for another. That means - well, logically speaking - that I am clearly not done. If I were done I wouldn't be asking."

His fierce expression deepened, and Tony wondered if the eyebrows would become physically embedded in the bartender's frown lines, if he kept that up. "I say you're done. So you're done. Go home. Call a cab." He picked up the mournfully empty glass and resolutely turned his back.

It was one of those nights, then. He wasn't really ready to go home, but if the bartender said he was done, then he was done, unless, well, he wasn't, but tonight was not one of the nights he wanted to pick a fight. As much as Tony liked this bar - it was more of a dive bar, than anything, which was hard enough to find, here in New York - he missed Los Angeles, with the bevy of thickly populated, throbbing nightclubs, the sleek and the slim clamouring for his attention, the laid-back old vinyl bars with the studded, duct-tape-repair-job booth seating.

There was just something so depressing about New York. So busy, always. He was so busy in his own head that sometimes he needed something to slow him down. A world that wasn't based on running, always running. Malibu oceans and half-naked girls, not these tight-lipped, formless coat-ridden stress-machines.

He was morose. He knew that. It was the only way to tell that he was drunker than he should have been, from those few drinks. He was very much morose, moping at the back of a bartender, and pining for somewhere he could be in just a few short hours, if only he would call up and arrange for his plane to be ready - or even a few short minutes, if he bothered with his suit - but god, it was just so. much. effort.

Tony Stark may have been a little depressed.

It was all the press. All the people. Captain America with his winning smile and troubled eyes, sitting silently at the kitchen table, frozen over a bowl of Cheerios, watching the daily news and struggling to make sense of this new and terrifyingly modern world. It was Bruce Banner, hiding in the underground laboratory, locking the door for weeks at a time, JARVIS the only one allowed access. It was Clint, sitting at the very peak of Stark Tower, staring down at all the people and not speaking for hours on end, trying to come to terms with the missing months in his head, of the chunks of time that bothered him so deeply.

Superhero. He hated that word. Here they were, a group of what may have been the strongest people in the entire world, and they were all so depressed that they could barely function. Without missions, without something to guide them along, they collapsed into sad puddles of, well, sadness. Pathetic.

Well, Fury got what he wanted, didn't he? All they had was each other. Didn't they fucking know it.

And here Tony Stark was, sitting in a shady gay bar, at one in the morning, moping because he had daddy issues and that came with so many of the things that were so stereotypical, and maybe that was what pissed him off most. It was just so fucking stereotypical. If Tony Stark had ever been anything, it was never that. But here he was. 

"As if this world were not small enough, there I find you. You have not even noticed me, and I admit, I am a bit put-out."

Loki was sitting next to him.

Tony stared blankly.

The Asgardian prince of mischief was... sitting next to him?

"How long have you been there and am I dead? This is not happening, so I must be dead. Hey, drinks on me!" He gestured expansively at the bar, panic making his heart beat approximately five times faster.

The bartender turned, scowled ever more ferociously, and ignored him in favour of a small grey-haired man who was eyeing both the superhero and the supervillain with surprising coolness. Clearly he was not impressed.

Which was ridiculous, because, honestly, it was hard not to be impressed by Loki, in whatever forms he took. This current one was sporting a short leather jacket - what was that, from the 80's? - and of course, a green scarf. The man had a definite fetish. A scarf fetish. Was that a thing?

"I happen to find them attractive. Does everything you think come out of that lovely mouth?" Loki quirked an eyebrow, and smirked.

Does - what? Tony was definitely dead. Well. In that case, if Loki was actually the devil, and Tony was in hell, and this was the end of it all, then he would do what he did best. And talk himself out of it. "You know, not everything. In fact, I'm pretty good at keeping secrets. Like, you know. This bar. What the hell are you doing here, Loki?"

The god turned in his seat, and smiled easily at the bartender, pulling his jacket down over his shoulders, leaving, of course, that ridiculous scarf. The bartender slid a small green drink in front of him. Loki looked over at Tony, ensuring his gaze, and then, with a slow smirk, sent frost crawling over the glass. It steamed against the humid bar air, slight wisps of visible air sliding away from the god's fingers. "I am here," he murmured, turning back to Tony with his smoking glass, "for a drink. You did promise me one, once, did you not?"

"You threw me out a window." Tony is compelled to remind him of this.

Loki shrugs easily, his shoulders shifting underneath his black button-up. "It was war. You were the enemy. I lost." As fluidly as the words drop from his mouth, there is something dark and bitter coiled in the back of his throat. "I lost, and here I am. My father is unoriginal at best, and felt it suiting to reinforce my own dear brother's punishment." His smile further twisted. "They could not take away from me that which is mine by birthright, however."

Tony watched the ice curl around Loki's fingertips, which looked suspiciously blue.

He had to admit, there was something much smaller about the Norse god. Something a little bit more delicate. Perhaps it was the curve of his jaw, or the tightness of his eyes - as smooth as his words flowed, they did not seem to come from an easy place. However - "you rehearsed this, didn't you?"

Loki's smile curved back upwards, and he glanced over. The smile had curled all the way up into his eyes, this time. "The man of iron and science cannot be fooled. Yes, little human. I planned this. I have long watched you drown your evenings in this wretched place."

He couldn't exactly say he was delighted by this revelation. "You're stuck here on Earth, and you could do anything, and you decide to come watch the guy who kicked your ass waste his life away drinking? Fantastic choice. You know what I recommend next? Disneyland. Far more interesting, and maybe Mickey will even give you a hug. You could probably use one."

Loki set his empty glass down, turning to face Tony fully. "I think, little human, that you underestimate yourself." He leaned forward, and with the casual grace of royalty, with the smooth lack of humility that befit his kind, he captured Tony's chin in his hand, pulling him close, arresting his gaze. "I think," and his voice was a slow, liquid drawl, "that you have absolutely no idea how very much you fascinate me."

Their lips were a hair's-breadth away from each other. Tony, superhero, engineer, brilliant, charismatic man that he was - Tony Stark was terrified to so much as breathe.

The bartender cleared his throat. "You guys. This is not really the place. I don't care if you meet here - but really. I don't want to be watching your tongue-fucking."

Loki did not even spare him a look. "Well, mine enemy, shall we venture elsewhere?"

"That is a terrible idea."

A wicked grin broke out across the supervillain's face. "I relish a terrible idea. Come." His hand left Tony's face - no - and grabbed at his shirt collar, pulling him to his feet. It was always surprising how tall Loki was, but then, Tony admitted to being rather short in stature, anyways.

Yes, he knew. Stereotypes. Daddy issues, short-man issues. Was there no way in which his poor little self-esteem was not constantly battered by a barrage of societal idiocy?

Loki had grabbed his jacket and shrugged it on, and was walking away from him, out the door into the cold blast of the New York night; never dim, always frozen.

Tony hesitated. This was a defining moment. This was the moment he either made a discrete call to Fury and rounded up S.H.I.E.L.D. to come corral the threat to mankind or - or follow that beautiful, slim ass out the door. To death? Possibly.

But, if was honest with himself - and Tony was always honest with himself, it was a fabulous trait of his, amongst many others - this was exciting. This was different. This was a distraction from the sadness that had been lately crawling along inside his gut. 

This was danger, and chance. And who was he to ignore a risky proposal? 

Outside, Loki had paused at the doorway, gazing up at the stars. They had bled into the lights of the city, so that only the brightest and strongest shone against the high-rises and overwhelming cacophony of humanity. "You cannot imagine the stars of my former home," the god said, almost blandly. "No human mind could comprehend the beauty of my - their - world. It is indescribably magnificent."

"Thor has never really talked about it," Tony said, as he fell into line with the mournful god.

The other man's face twisted in a grimace. "There are many things my brother failed to notice, as we grew together." He sighed, a human gesture that shocked Tony in its simplicity. "But come. I did not find you to speak of that which I detest."

"Why did you find me?"

Loki laughed, his exhale echoing the icy grasp from earlier. "Surely the brilliant Iron Man has no illusion of my intention?"

Tony's breath caught in his throat. "Perhaps I'd like you to tell me."

"How obvious of you, Tony Stark. How very human. Perhaps I should tell you again what I said once before. Perhaps you were not listening closely enough? Perhaps you did not believe." And then Loki stepped into Tony's space - so closely that he backed away in surprise, a bit twitchy still - of course, after all, this man had tried to kill him - repeatedly - so what was he to expect? But Loki did not stop there, pushing the smaller man backwards, and into the darkened step of a butcher's shop. The grated doorframe bit into his shoulder, but he was not about to break this silence with complaints.

The dark-haired, bright-eyed god of mischief was dim against the yellowish-grey New York night, the gleam of his leather the only defining sharpness of his form. Far away, police sirens screamed through another part of the city, as Loki brought his fingers up to clasp at Tony's face, and then - oh - there were softfirm lips against his jaw. He was so glad he had shaved recently.

An exhalation of laughter against his throat, and then teeth scraped over his ear. A low moan started curling up in his stomach, somewhere near the part of him that was terrified, wailing in panic, and the part of him that was immobilized by a lust so sudden and intense Tony was surprised he still knew how to feel that strongly.

"Iron Man," the god whispered, "hero of the nation, beloved and celebrated as much as he is hated - oh yes, little human. Now that I am one of you, I listen. I pay attention to your world." The thumb tilting his jaw up slid down until it rested against his fluttering pulse and then started a slow press. Tony's breath hitched, harder to suck in as his airway was constricted. "Little human, I say the same thing to you as I have said to all others." Loki dragged a kiss across his shoulder, edging up against the still shirt-covered flesh. "My intentions? Why, I intend to make you kneel." And his teeth bit into Tony's neck, hard, eliciting a high-pitched whine of uncontrolled arousal that Tony was ashamed to realize had come from himself.

"Would you like that?" Loki's eyes were on his, searching. "Tell me you would like that." His lips curved upwards before descending again to brush over the bruises, not gently. "Because I may not listen if you say otherwise."

"I am dead. I am going to hell. Yes. Let us go merrily into hell together." Was this babbling? He was babbling. He was standing in a doorway, hard as a fucking rock - if that rock happened to be made of vibranium and was pressed against a god's beautiful, slim, entirely-too clothed hips. 

"To Hel, then, and may her judgement be kind." And then they were - somewhere. The transportation barely jolted him, held together as they were. There was dust under his feet and hard steel at his back and he didn't care because at his front was Loki, pressing him close, so close that their erections had finally ground into each other, and there were sharp nips all across his throat.

"Are you ever - you fucking asshole - are you ever going to just kiss me?" Tony finally burst out, hands scrabbling at the leather-clad back in front of him. The hands at his throat kept him immobilized. Asgardian no more, alien forever, the god was still far too strong for Tony to offer much resistance. If he had wanted to. He was not particularly sure he wanted to.

Loki laughed aloud, relaxing his grip so that Tony slumped back into the wall - they were in a warehouse, somewhere? Something of the sort. It had the smell of grease, of oil, of sweat and work. "You want me to kiss you? Yes, man of iron. I shall kiss you." And then lips. Delicious, delicate, hungry lips, biting, sucking, tearing at his own, and a body as close as it could be with this many clothes on - but then there weren't clothes, and Loki had ripped Tony's favourite shirt, simply disregarded its existence as so much fabric, but, fuck it, that's exactly what it was, and if it meant that the god had more access to slide his tongue and teeth down his chest then he was not about to complain, except, nervous and panicked and more aroused than he'd ever been, Tony was babbling everything that came to mind, burbling words as they appeared in his mind, until finally, Loki, amused, wrenched a piece of fabric from the now-thoroughly ruined shirt, and shoved it in Tony's mouth. "Quiet, human. You do make everything so difficult."

And then it was just Loki's mouth all over him, including, oh god, finally, his cock - his tongue sliding over the head and dipping against the crest of his balls, soft and wet and hot and heavenly, until it was replaced with a delicate hand. Loki had artist's fingers, long, thin, and beautifully, erotically strong.

Tony was gasping, heaving against the gag in his mouth, but his hands were too busy touching the cold body against his own to do much about it. His fingers found long sleek strands of hair, and tangled themselves, gripping fiercely lest the other man decide that he wanted to pull away. But he seemed disinclined, content to simple torture Tony in the cruelest, most delicious of ways possible, his hands and tongue alternating with a slow, steady rhythm. 

One hand found Tony's wrist, and shoved it up away, and in the same smooth movement, Loki rose, seizing both wrists and pushing them together over his partner's head. It wasn't even fair, Tony whined internally. Loki was just so much taller, it just made it so much easier for him - look, he wasn't even trying, he was just casually pinning Tony down with a single hand, and nothing to it - but really, was he even trying to resist? - well, no. 

He was probably going to be murdered, but at least he'd enjoy it, first. 

"You are still thinking," the god said, his eyes coming level with the smaller man's. He pulled the piece of cloth from his mouth, the fabric trailing in a way that was horrifyingly erotic against his tingling lips. 

"Well - I mean, I wasn't, for a minute there, but then, you know, I'm pretty invested in my own survival, and well, you have a habit of trying to murder me - " but those were just words, and only meant to distract from his shifting wrists, as he tried to loosen the bruising grasp, pulling against them and arching his naked hips up.

Humiliating. Horrifying. Tony Stark, stripped, bruised, pants around his ankles, body on fire and brain swimming with all the things they could be doing, should be doing, where Loki's mouth should have stayed. And the god, standing just too far away from him to touch, still fully clothed, breathing even and undisturbed by passion. 

But it was always like this with sex, for him. He threw himself into it like he did drink, passionately and whole-heartedly, knowing that, for a few short hours, everything in his head would silence, as long as the sensations continued. 

Loki hummed an acknowledgment, not even fighting the accusation. "I do, at that. However, I am not much for ravaging a dead body... they do not react quite so beautifully as you are this instant." The hand on Tony's wrist gripped tighter, disabusing him of the notion that he might escape. His other hand slid down, and a firm hand settled on his cock so abruptly that Tony barely had a chance to wheeze, before a mouth crushed into his again, tongue and teeth and a hissed word of satisfaction from the other man. 

"I'm going to take your pleasure," he murmured, lips still against Tony's, "when and where I see fit. I want to take you. I want to own your body. I want you to relish being fucked by a god. I want to own your screams. Do you understand me?" The hand on his cock tightened to the point of pain, but all Tony could do was whimper. "I may not have enslaved your race, little human, but I will make you mine." He bit, then, hard, and Tony was not surprised by the sudden pool of blood against his tongue, but instead by the way it made his hips jerk up into the other man's fist, and the groan that escaped, unformed and unwanted. The slim hand on his erection worked furiously for a few moments, causing Tony to buck and writhe, and the cold lips burned into his own, mouth possessing, demanding. Loki snarled foreign words into his throat, while the hands on his wrists nearly ground his bones to bits.

And then it all stopped.

Loki stepped completely back, releasing Tony entirely. He smoothed his hands down his jacket, rearranged his scarf. "Fuck no one else. I will come for you in your home." His smirk was positively delighted, but the coldness didn't leave the set of his mouth. Neither did the heat leave his eyes. They spoke of terrible things, of ravagings, of carpet burn and sore thighs and unexplainable bruises. The god lifted his hand to his mouth, and he licked pre-cum and sweat from the fingertips, before the long fingers reached out, ghosted a fragile touch over Tony's bruised and bleeding lip. "I intend to have you all to myself. But in time. I want to... savour this."

His teleportation left a cold breeze in its wake, and a dazed superhero leaning still-erect against the cold aluminum of a warehouse wall. Which was when the hyperventilation set in, and Tony slid against the wall, panicked wheezes leaving at odd intervals from his throat. He leaned his head into his knees, gripping his hair in both hands. He realized he was trembling. 

He wanted it. He wanted it so bad it hurt. And he knew that when the god showed up, when he came to take him - he would be there, and he would give in, willingly, without a question or a complaint. It was excitement and danger and fear and everything he needed, in the form of one lean, murderous mind with poison-green eyes and an unknown motive, and those fucking gorgeous lips, so cold and unrelenting.

He wanted it.

Fuck, he was so fucking hard.


End file.
